


Pinpoint

by equestrianstatue



Category: due South
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 07:53:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4471286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/equestrianstatue/pseuds/equestrianstatue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Ray," he says, and I stop talking, because suddenly that's not the Mountie voice at all. He sounds real upset, just for a moment, and don't ask me how I get that from only my name, but I do. "If I'm not on that flight next week, I don't want you to be unhappy. That's why I'm calling. I'm sorry for the inconvenience it might cause. As your friend, I wanted to let you know."</i> </p><p>Post-season two AU. Fraser calls Vecchio from his vacation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pinpoint

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ailcia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ailcia/gifts).



> For ailcia, die-hard Vecchio-er, who described the phone call at the beginning of season three as "the worst two minutes of my life".

The damn thing's so shrill, it's ringing itself right off the cradle. There I am trying to reassure Mrs Suarez that we're doing everything we can to find her husband, cross my heart, so help me God, and she doesn't believe a word I'm saying, I can tell, but what am I supposed to do – and the phone starts ringing. They got me one of those phones on the desk that you can't ignore, drives you too crazy not to pick it up.

So we're staring at each other, me and her, and the phone is drilling into the side of my head and probably hers too, so in the end I turn away and snatch it up.

"Yeah, this is Vecchio."

"Hello, Ray."

It's Fraser. The noise in the bullpen dies down a little, or maybe it just fades into the background, I'm so pleased to hear his voice.

"Benny! How are things up at the North Pole?"

"Well, I couldn't say. I'm approximately 63 degrees north and 114 degrees west – a good three thousand kilometers from the North Pole. In fact, if I were to strike out at something like twenty degrees north-north-east – "

"You see any penguins yet?"

"Penguins reside in the Antarctic Circle, Ray," he says, but I can hear him smiling.

I tuck the phone into the crook of my neck, sit down at the desk. Mrs Suarez huffs and folds her arms across her chest, but I jab my finger at the handset, in case she doesn't get how important this is. I didn't think I'd hear from Fraser until he got back from his Boy Scout adventure in a week's time, because he told me access to field telephones in his weird-ass vacation spot was far from adequate. I said I didn't see anything I'd describe as a field last time I was in his part of the country, and he said that wasn't relevant.

"So you found a payphone?" I ask. "You mean even Canadians gotta give up and call a cab sometimes?"

"Not quite," Fraser says. "I'm strapped to the top of a telephone pole forty feet in the air."

"Jeez, Benny, that's a lot of effort to go to say how d'you do." I'm kinda touched. I guess he's kinda touched too, in a different way.

"Yes," he agrees. "It's a little uncomfortable, if I'm completely honest."

"Sorry to hear that."

"But I thought it was important that I call you."

"Oh?" Almost before I realize what I'm doing, I pull a pad of paper towards me, pick up a pen. "Hey, is anything wrong?"

"No, not at all."

"Good. You're having a blast on vacation, right?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. I've already arrested four people, and secured the release of a wrongfully convicted young woman."

"Oh yeah, sounds like a laugh riot. That ain't a vacation, Benny. That's work with a change of scenery."

"Perhaps you're right."

I guess I'm a little surprised that he agrees with me. Usually we'd argue the point. But then again, he is perched on top of a wooden pole in the middle of nowhere, so less time for chit-chat, maybe.

"It's really good to hear from you," I tell him. Man, but I'm looking forward to having him back. He'd be all over Mrs Suarez right now, knowing all the right things to say to send her home happy and believing we were gonna haul her husband's ass up in front of her before the day was out. As it is, she's got me, trying my best, and I'm just not cutting it.

"Likewise." There's a pause on the line, like Fraser was about to say something else. But before I can cut in, he suddenly says, "Ray, I'm calling to let you know that you shouldn't come to meet me at the airport next week."

"Course I'm gonna come meet you. What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I say." He doesn't, though: I can hear that in his voice, and I'd be no kind of cop if I couldn't. He's gone all clipped and official, that thing he does when he's making sure nobody can hear or see whatever he's really thinking. "Don't come to meet me. I may not be on that particular flight, and I don't want to put you to trouble for no reason."

"What do you mean, you might not be on that flight? You gotta change your flight time? So just call and let me know from the airport at your end – there'll be a phone there, don't kid me there won't."

"Ray," he says, and I stop talking, because suddenly that's not the Mountie voice at all. He sounds real upset, just for a moment, and don't ask me how I get that from only my name, but I do. "If I'm not on that flight next week, I don't want you to be unhappy. That's why I'm calling. I'm sorry for the inconvenience it might cause. As your friend, I wanted to let you know."

"Okay," I say, slowly. The pen's back in my hand, jabbing dots of ink onto the pad of paper. "You sure everything's good there, Benny? Nothing you want to tell me?"

"I want to tell you this. I want to tell you that I might not be on that flight."

I breathe out through my mouth, frustrated. "Sure. Consider me told."

"Good," he says. He's getting a little fuzzy, which probably is because of the whole dangling over the treetops on a wooden pole thing. "Thank you, Ray."

"For what?"

For some reason, he laughs, only for a moment, and softly. "For so much."

"Yeah, you too, you nutball," I say, but something about all this is strange, isn't what it should be, and I can't figure it out, which is making me antsy. "I miss you, Fraser," I say. "Get home safe, okay?"

"I miss you too, Ray," he replies, and then he doesn't say anything else.

"I'll see you soon," I tell him. "You gotta get off the pole?"

"Yes."

"That's cool. Don't break any bones getting down again. And enjoy the rest of your trip, yeah?"

"I will do. Goodbye, Ray, and take care."

"You too," I say. There's a crackle of static, and then the line goes dead.

I put the phone back into its cradle, and stare at it. I feel like I have no idea what happened in the last two minutes, but then I often feel like that after talking to Fraser.

"Who was that?" Mrs Suarez asks.

"It doesn't matter," I say. Huey walks past, and I intercept him, swing him round towards Mrs Suarez. "Hey, this is Detective Huey. He's the one co-ordinating the search operation. Any other questions, you talk to him, he's your man." And before either of them can argue, I slip round them and disappear along the corridor, heading outside and to the parking lot.

I sit in the Riv and put my hands on the wheel, but I'm not going anywhere, not yet. I just need to be there, on my own, for a moment. Something's not right, but Fraser didn't sound like he was in any danger, or like anyone was making him say something he didn't want to.

One thing's for sure: there's something he didn't tell me. With Fraser there's always something he doesn't tell you, but I feel like this one might be bigger than usual.

 

*

The next Tuesday I drive out to O'Hare to meet Fraser's flight. He might not be on it, okay, but there's no harm in going, especially as I'm half-expecting him not to be, so it's not like I'll be stood up if he doesn't show on time. He's not on an earlier flight, that I'm sure of, because my cell's in the seat next to me all the way there and he'd've called if he'd landed already.

I stand in Arrivals and watch people spill onto the concourse. Couples kissing, kids and parents hugging, taxi drivers with names on signs for the businessmen. Fraser doesn't show with the rest of the passengers from the 14.35 from Edmonton, but I'm not expecting him to. I buy a magazine and a coffee, take a seat near the window, wait a little longer. He's not on the next flight, either, at 16.50. I get another coffee and a bagel. He's not on the 19.00. I do one last circuit of the airport and then I drive home.

 

*

On Wednesday morning I head to the two-nine via Fraser's apartment, as if I'm picking him up for work. A tiny part of me thinks maybe he'll be there, maybe he got back in the middle of the night. But the rest of me isn't surprised when I bang on his door and get no answer, and when it swings open. No lock, but then there's nothing in there anybody in their right mind would want to take.

I peer inside, anyway, just to be absolutely sure. Fraser's apartment is bleak at the best of times, but without him in it, it's practically gray with the emptiness. His bed's made neatly on one side of the room, no doubt with his hospital corners, and there's nothing at all out on the worktop. I look in the cupboards and the wardrobe but of course he's taken his mess tin and his clothes with him. There's almost nothing in the place to prove anyone lives here at all.

But then, leaning against the wall on the other side of the bed, I see Fraser's guitar. I grin in spite of myself. It's like the first piece of Fraser I've seen for a month, sitting quietly, waiting for him to come back, like me. I feel better as I close the door behind me and head back down to the car, hoping the windows and tires have survived five minutes of being left alone on Racine.

It's still a little before nine. I figure that they might know something at the Consulate, because Fraser can't very well have called up the Dragon Lady and told her he didn't know when he'd be back at work. Either she'd have gotten an ETA out of him, or this whole thing is their fault in the first place.

 

*

I reach the Consulate at nine on the dot, and there's a guy I don't recognize on wooden soldier duty. I bypass him and head straight for the reception, where Turnbull greets me with a big smile. He's a good kid, soft in the head, sure, but I guess he's trying his best.

"Good morning, Detective," he beams at me. "How may I assist you?"

"Yeah, hi. I was wondering if anybody knew when Fraser was coming back?"

"Fraser who, sir?"

I stare at him. "Fraser. Constable Fraser. You know. Benny."

Turnbull's still beaming, but it's looking a little fixed in place. "I'm sorry, Detective. I don't know anybody of that name."

"You do," I say, and I know this is just another one of Turnbull's weird days where he's taught himself to forget how to answer the phone or can only speak while saluting or whatever, but right now, I don't have the time.

"I'm afraid you must be mistaken. I have never met a Constable Fraser."

"Forget it." I shuffle my feet with impatience. "Can I see the boss lady?"

"Inspector Thatcher, sir?"

"So you remember her, huh? Yes, Inspector Thatcher."

"Do you have an appointment?"

I plant my hands on the desk in front of him, take a deep breath, and lean in. "No," I say. "I don't. But I'm sure she can take a moment out of her busy schedule to answer one very simple question about the guy you've apparently wiped from existence."

"What makes you sure about that, sir?" he asks, curious.

Luckily, for me and for Turnbull, who was getting pretty close to a slap to the head, the door to the Ice Queen's office bangs open at that very moment.

"Constable Turnbull," she says, "Where on God's green earth is my latte macchiato?"

"I'm very sorry, ma'am, but it's been delayed by this gentleman. He's asking about a man I'm afraid I've never met, seen, or heard of."

I straighten up, and Thatcher looks at me, one hand on her hip. "Hello, Detective Vecchio."

"Where the hell's Fraser?"

To my surprise, she sighs, and drops the hand down to hang by her side instead. "I think you should come into my office."

I go in, and she closes the door behind us. "Before you say anything – " she starts, but I'm reaching the end of my tether here.

"Before I nothing. I hope you got some clue what's going on here, because first I got Fraser calling me with this skeevy don't-come-meet-me business, and now Dudley Do-Right out there is claiming that Fraser never _existed_ , and frankly the whole thing is getting weirder by the minute."

"Fraser called you?" she says. She looks kind of shocked.

"Yeah, he called me. What? I know they don't got so many phones up there, but he climbed some kind of pole – "

"What did he say?"

"Just what I said. That I shouldn't meet him at the airport."

"That was it?"

"Pretty much. I mean, he said hey, hi, how's it going, you know, but – he didn't explain what was up with him. I thought he was just gonna be delayed, but now everything's getting a little kooky, so I hope you can straighten things out for me, okay?"

Thatcher sits down heavily in her chair. "I thought I might have more time before you came in. I thought I might not see you for a couple more days."

"What do you mean?"

"Detective, you might want to take a seat."

"I might not want to."

"Sit down, Detective Vecchio," Thatcher says, and I do. I guess I understand why Fraser trips over himself when she's around.

She sighs again, and purses her lips. She looks – unhappy. I start worrying, more than I already was.

"What is it?" I say. Suddenly I'm panicking. "Is Fraser okay? Is he hurt?"

"He's fine," she says. So she knows that – she knows something. I feel relief mingling with anger in my chest. How come she knows and I don't?

"Where is he?"

"Unfortunately, I can't tell you that – " she raises my hand to stop my protest before I've even made it – "because I don't know. What I do know, and what I can tell you, on the understanding that this information is highly confidential, is that Constable Fraser has been reassigned."

"Reassigned?" I repeat, stupidly. Something else in my chest goes ice cold.

"Reassigned to an operation in the Northwest Territories. Undercover."

My mouth falls open. For the first time in I don't know how long, I am utterly lost for words.

"Undercover?" I repeat, eventually. " _Fraser_?"

"That is correct."

I gape at her. "Have you seen him undercover? Because I have. Who the hell assigned him to this?"

"It's out of my hands, Detective. I have no idea," Thatcher says. She swallows, and for just a second, I see something behind that smooth-skinned mask. Her mouth twitches, and then she's back in control. "I know you'll miss Fraser as much as we will here at the Consulate."

"Miss him?" I say. I shake myself, trying to snap out of just repeating everything she says like a dumbass. "What do you mean, miss him? How long's this thing for?"

"As I keep telling you, I don't know," she says. "But it doesn't sound as if it will be over any time soon."

I stand up and bang my fist against her desk. Never mind it's obviously nothing to do with her, it's to do with the goddamned Canadians, and she's one of them. "That's ridiculous, lady. Fraser lives here. They can't just do that."

"No," she says, a little more quietly. "Not without his consent to take part in the operation, which he will have given."

"Of _course_ he gave his consent!" I yell. "He's Fraser! If you tell him something's gonna make one iota of difference in the battle of good and evil, he'll literally kill himself doing it!" I put my head in my hands, and groan. Then I look at her again. "Why didn't you stop him?"

Her mouth is set in a grimace. "I didn't have the opportunity," she says. "I didn't get to speak to him."

I throw the door open, and Turnbull calls, "Have a pleasant day, sir!" after me as a I jog through the lobby and back out onto the street.

 

*

I crash into Welsh's office, pull the blinds down, grab his sandwich out of his hands so he'll listen to me, and give him a garbled version of the whole thing. I know I'm gesticulating wildly as I pace up and down in front of his desk, and I know that I've got most of the contents of the sandwich on the floor, but I can't bring myself to care.

"So that's why I have to go to Canada, sir," I finish.

"I see," Welsh says, slowly. He clears his throat. "Detective, while I appreciate that this situation is clearly a surprise to the both of us, I would like to remind you that Canada is very large, and Constable Fraser comparatively small. Your chances of finding him don't seem too high. Wouldn't it be easier to simply wait for him to come back?"

"One, okay, he's not just in Canada, I know he's in the Northwest Territories, so that narrows it down. Two," I continue, counting off on my fingers, "it sounds like he's not going to be back for God knows how long, and if you make me stay here I'll go crazy, and I won't be any good to you at all."

I see Welsh's mouth twist. He knows I'm right about that, but he's still not buying. "Be that as it may, Detective, you have a job here that you can't walk out of on a moment's notice. The Suarez case – "

"Huey's on it," I say, waving a hand.

"And I must point out to you," Welsh carries on, undeterred, "that the Northwest Territories are, I believe, close on two thousand times the geographical area of Chicago. Constable Fraser remains a bright red needle in an enormous haystack."

"Two thousand?" I say. Jesus Christ. "How d'you know?"

Welsh shrugs. "Constable Fraser once told me. Nearer to eighteen hundred, maybe."

"Okay," I say. "But listen, I didn't finish. Because _three_ – " I throw my hands up in despair. "I've been undercover with Fraser four times, if you can call it that. Once in a used car lot, once in a prison, once in a psychiatric institution, and frankly, sir, that one doesn't count, because I'm not sure he did any acting at all that time round. And that case in the convent school – well, that was a whole different thing, never mind what that was about. But the point here is I've watched Fraser try to do this before, and you know as well as I do that Fraser _can't lie_. He physically can't. He doesn't know how to be anything other than what he is. I don't know what lunatic organized this operation, but if it's at all dangerous – and I'll bet it is – Fraser's mincemeat."

Welsh rests his chin in his hands.

"Think about it, sir. Really think about it. Imagine a mobster, or a gun-runner, or a – smuggler, I don't know what they have up there in Canada. A bad guy. Now imagine Fraser trying to fit in with someone like that. And imagine what they're gonna do to him when it doesn't work."

I watch him think it through. He looks at me. I nod.

Welsh pushes his chair back from the desk and sighs. "God speed, Detective."

I bang my way out of the office, back into the bullpen. "Elaine!"

I didn't really think yelling her name was going to work, but she appears in the doorway to the breakroom, straight away. "Yeah?"

Okay, so, Northwest Territories. Two thousand times the size of Chicago. But I'll bet ninety-nine percent of it is awful barren emptiness, and if I'm gonna find Fraser, I'm gonna have to talk to people, and most of the people are gonna be in the one percent that's got, you know, TV and hot water. Probably I need to find the biggest Mountie police station, and if Canada makes any sense at all that'll be in whatever the biggest city is. Okay. Easy.

"Do we have a map of Canada?"

Elaine leans against the doorframe and crosses her arms. "What, all of it?"

"No. I just need the Northwest Territories."

"Let me go look."

"Great."

I watch as she starts off down the corridor, and then, lightbulb clicks on, I remember. I smack myself in the forehead, I'm such an idiot.

"Scratch that. Hold the map, hold it, I thought of something better. I need to look up some co-ordinates. Can we do that on the computer?"

"Sure," Elaine says, and goes to her desk instead.

Because Fraser gave me his frigging location _himself_ , right there on the phone. Sure, that was a week ago, but how far can he have moved since then? Best not to answer that, because Fraser practically has superpowers when he's up north, he can probably dogsled a hundred miles an hour or ride a polar bear or something. Still, it's a start.

I stand behind Elaine and look at the screen over her shoulder. There's a geolocation program loaded, and she looks up at me.

"What co-ordinates?"

"Gimme a second." Shit, I remember him telling me, but I don't remember what they _are_. I was tuning out before the end of the sentence. But I must have heard them. I remember what Fraser told me about the brain holding on to information, about how you can make it tell you things it's got in there in your subconscious, if you can put yourself back in the place where you heard them.

I don't know if he meant that literally, but it seems like the only plan I've got. "Hold on," I say to Elaine, and I go back to my own desk, sit down in front of the phone. I even pull the pad and pen towards me, try and sit the same way as when Fraser called, stick one leg out under the desk. Okay. Okay. Receiver pressed to my ear, bullpen chatter in the background, Mrs Suarez staring me down. _Penguins reside in the Antarctic Circle, Ray._ No, it was earlier than that. I squeeze my eyes shut, try to rewind the memory of his voice.

_How are things up at the North Pole?_

_Well, I couldn't say. I'm approximately 63 degrees north and 114 degrees west –_

Ding ding ding, I got it. The pen's in my hand, so I scribble it down just to be safe, grab the pad, and go back to Elaine, who's watching me from her seat like I've gone totally bugfuck crazy, which maybe I have.

"63 north, 114 west. Punch that in. Where is it?"

Better hope Fraser knew where he was. What I am saying – like that's even a question. Elaine hits the keys, and we watch the little flashing light zero in on the map. Yeah, that's definitely Canada, and it's definitely up in the northwest, and it –

"Looks like the middle of nowhere, Ray."

That figures. Top of the telephone pole.

"Okay, no problem. What's the nearest town?"

Elaine zooms the map out a little, and that's good, that's great, there's something that looks like civilization close enough that it'll fit on the same screen.

"Yellowknife. I think it's a city, actually."

"Yeah." This is good news, this is real good news. "I've been there. Sorta. Had to change there the first time I followed Fraser up north. It's an actual place, it's got hotels, shops, everything."

"Is that all you need?" Elaine asks, swinging her chair round to face me.

"Yeah, that's it." I tap the screen. "Anyone needs me, that's where I'll be."

Gotta go pack, gotta get a ticket – no, I'll just get one at the airport. I head back to my desk, check there's nothing there I need to take with me, and there isn't, so I rip off that piece of paper with Fraser's co-ordinates on and stuff it in my pocket. I'm outta here.

"You're welcome," Elaine calls after me, as I walk away.

I stop, pause, take a deep breath. Elaine's taken a lot of shit from me these last few years, and I don't do it on purpose. She knows that, but still.

"Thank you kindly, Elaine," I say, and then I'm gone.

 

*

Thirteen hours later, I'm in Yellowknife Airport, already shivering just looking at the sky outside. I'm pumped up on bad coffee and I didn't eat enough and I'm already thinking I didn't wear enough layers, but this isn't the first time I hot-footed it up to the Great White North because Fraser did something totally insane, and God knows it probably won't be the last.

Here's what I figured on the way up: whoever's put Fraser undercover is crazy, no question, but they must have had some kind of a reason. There must have been something that made Fraser seem like the right guy for the job. And unless this operation is looking specifically for someone who talks to his dog and irons his shorts – and this is Canada, so I'm not ruling anything out – I'm thinking that, most likely, they need someone with Fraser's knowledge of the wilderness and his ability not to die in it. It's the only thing I can come up with that might go some way to balancing the fact that Fraser can't pretend to be anyone else to save his life. Literally.

This is maybe bad news, because it means that if everything's in motion already, if Fraser is undercover, he could be absolutely anywhere in the Canadian outback, and probably somewhere I can't get to. But I'm betting everything on one hand: that it's only a week since Fraser called me, and I hope that means it's only a week since he agreed to do this, and I hope _that_ means he hasn't left town yet. Because if he's got to get in with people, infiltrate a gang or partner up with someone or whatever, surely that's got to happen here, in civilization. He can't just drop in on Canada's equivalent of bad guys in the middle of the tundra, with the exact skills and tools and knowledge that they need, and have it seem like a coincidence. Not when the country's so freaking big. When the towns are so small, though – that's a different question.

I take a cab to the nearest hotel, dump my bag on the bed, and then sit down next to it. I'm beat from the travel and the stress, but there's no way I can sleep with my mind racing like this. Also, because Canada doesn't fucking understand how the sun is supposed to work, it's still broad daylight out there even though it's after ten in the evening.

So I run everything through again. Fraser was forty miles from here a week ago, and I'm hoping like hell that he's now in town to make his hookup. I can't ask around for him, because duh, even Fraser can probably manage not going by his own name, and even if I just use a description, I don't want to draw attention to him.

The other thing I figure is that the whole thing's come from way up top. Thatcher didn't know about it, and couldn't stop it if she'd wanted to, which I think maybe she did. So it's a big deal. It's gonna be Canada's equivalent of the Feds pulling the strings. You got someone going undercover, no warning, top brass, that means organized crime. And I never met anyone more organized than the Canadians.

All of that means the local gang of Mounties aren't going to know anything about this. It's gonna be way over their heads. And even if they did know, why the hell would they tell me? I got no jurisdiction, I got no reason to pull Fraser out of cover, I got nothing.

But what I do have is a map from the front desk, and you know what? There's only a half dozen or so bars in this town. This might be another country, it might nearly be a whole other _planet_ , but I know how this shit goes down, and I know the sort of place people meet other people who don't want to be found. You don't go somewhere totally off the radar, you don't meet in a parking lot or an empty warehouse, because that's too damn conspicuous: you're the only people there. You're asking for someone to take notice. No, you go to where the other people are, but someplace they'll look right through you.

I fold the city map up and shove it into my pocket, along with my wallet, and pull on my jacket, hat, scarf, and gloves. And I sure as hell hope they accept American money.

 

*

Say one thing for a town like this, you can walk across most of it in a half hour. It's near midnight, the sun's finally given up, and I've hit every joint I can find, with nothing to show for it aside from how much I want to sit down and have a drink for real.

I decide that's probably what I should do. So I go back to the first place I tried, which was kind of a hole, small and dingy, but that's what I want right now. Somewhere to sit quietly and think about what I'm going to do next, and why I've just hurled myself two thousand miles across the border without stopping for breath.

There's a few more people here than when I came by an hour or so before, so I scan the tables methodically as I stand by the bar, turning that crumpled piece of paper over and over in my pocket. I'm not expecting anything – I'm not sure if I was expecting anything the whole night, maybe I just had to do _something_ before I felt like I could slow down and have a drink and think this shit through. But the table in the far corner catches my eye, because it's in a difficult place to catch _anyone's_ eye. There are two people sat there, but they're in almost total shadow, and if you weren't a cop trying to make every guy in the room, you would pretty likely miss them altogether.

I order a Scotch and soda and the barman doesn't even hold my money up to the light, so I guess it's good here. I sit at a table two along from the corner, where I get a better view of the two guys I couldn't see before. Or I get a good view of one guy's back, blocking out the second. I try to look round him without it seeming obvious, which is totally impossible, so instead I wait until he leans back and I can see past him. When he does, it's just for a second, and I only get a glimpse, but –

I don't know what it is that I'm seeing. It's someone who looks like Fraser. Looks a hell of a lot like Fraser. I mean, in any other context, I'd swear it was him. I've looked at the guy nearly every day for two years, and I don't need him in uniform to know who he is. But there is something indefinably non-Fraser about the man I am looking at now, and I don't just mean the slicked-back hair or the rolled-up shirtsleeves. Maybe it's the way he's sitting, slouched back in his wooden chair. The way his hand curls around the base of his drink, and his fingers drum against the side of the glass. The way he's chewing a little at the inside of his mouth as he watches the guy he's with, listening to him, I guess.

Like I said, it's a split second, and then he's gone again, the other guy blocking him from view. I blink at the guy's back, and then I look down at my drink. I think that it's entirely possible that I'm so desperate to see Fraser that I imagined him. Not a hallucination, nothing crazy, just good old-fashioned wishful thinking. But I have to be sure. My heart's hammering, because if this _is_ Fraser, I can't believe that I've found him, I can't believe he's okay – but also, what do I do now? I can't exactly walk on over and introduce myself to his new friend. _Hey, Benny, how've you been?!_

So I sip at my Scotch like I've got all the time in the world and I watch this guy's back, waiting for him to move again, waiting to get another glimpse of someone who might be my best friend or might be someone I've never met before. And before too long, I do.

This time I'm prepared. He's talking now, the guy who might be Fraser, but I've never seen Fraser talk like this. I can't hear him, but I can see he's talking slowly, almost drawling, twirling one hand in the air in a lazy gesture that is so unlike him that I nearly decide on the spot that it must be an evil twin. Only then he swipes one thumb across his eyebrow, and _that_ is so familiar it floors me all over again. Jesus Christ, it really is him.

Maybe he can hear my jaw hitting the table, because at that moment he looks up and over the other guy's shoulder. If I had an ounce of sense left in me I'd look away, or turn around, drop to the floor, anything – but I just sit there, gaping like a schmuck, as Fraser sees me. And boy, he sees me all right. For all of half a second, it's like he's seen a ghost, which I guess he kind of has. It's crazy to say I see him go white, because there's no way I can make that out through the dark and the smoke, but I'm sure he does. His mouth falls open too, just a little, in total shock.

I get my act together at the same moment Fraser does. He snaps his mouth closed, snaps his eyes back to the guy he's talking to, and doesn't spare me another look. His new friend doesn't notice, or at least he doesn't let Fraser know he's noticed, because he doesn't turn round to see what he was looking at. And I stand up, toss back my drink, and walk away.

I stop when I get to the bar. The barman offers me the same again, but I shake my head. I've got maybe ten seconds to figure out what to do next, and I get it in five.

"Got a pen?" I ask him.

He does. I pull the piece of paper from my pocket with the co-ordinates on it, battered now from being shoved in there with the map and my hands and my gloves. I tear off the bottom half and I scribble the name of my hotel and the room number on there. Then I slide it across the counter to the barman.

"Anyone asks about me," I say, "you can send them there."

He raises his eyebrows, but he takes it. I realize it's going to look like I just picked Fraser up in this dive, but then again, that's a pretty good cover story. I think about winking at the barman before I leave, but then I decide that's maybe going too far.

 

*

There's a minibar in my room, thank God. I'm three beers down, and on the verge of shredding the cuffs of my shirt, when there's a knock at the door. It's nearly two in the morning. My mouth goes dry and my heart skips a beat, and both of those sound stupid, like things you only read about, but apparently your body can do that for real.

I open the door to Fraser. Real Fraser, my Fraser – he's got his old leather jacket on over that plaid shirt, and he's standing like Fraser should stand, upright and expectant.

"Ray," he says, and it's funny, soft and surprised, like he wasn't sure I was gonna be there.

I pull him by the arm into the room, and he closes the door behind him. Then I grab him and haul him into the biggest, hardest hug I think I ever gave anyone. He hugs me too, and those solid arms like iron bars round my back somehow make it real. Maybe I'm going to cry. I don't think I care.

"Hey, Benny," I say. He lets me go, and I step back.

"Ray," he says, again, and it's still got this air of wondering to it, like a kid seeing something incredible that he can't get his head round. "What are you doing here?"

"What do you think I'm doing here? I came to find you."

"Why?"

I look him in the eye. He looks at me right back, eyebrows raised. Man, what do I say? I thought you were gonna die out here? I was the only one who knew that and I had to do something about it? Now that we're here, now that I've seen him in that bar, clearly I'm wrong. Clearly I don't know shit.

"You're asking me that, Fraser?" I say, instead. "You never tracked someone across two countries before?"

"Fair enough," says Fraser, and he smiles.

I nearly add: _Don't say you wouldn't have done the same for me_. Then I realize I don't want to know the answer to that. I bite it back.

"How did you find out?" Fraser asks. "And how on earth did you find me?"

I breathe out, tired, through my mouth and nose. I wave my hand at the chair against the wall, which has my beer on the floor next to it. Fraser sits down, and I pick up the beer, and sit on the bed opposite him. "Well," I say, and then I hold the beer up. "You want one?"

"No, thank you."

"You want water, juice, anything?"

"I'm fine, Ray."

The bottle's nearly empty, so I drink the last mouthful, and put it on the bedside table. "I went to the Consulate. Thatcher told me you'd been, ah, how did she put it? Reassigned."

Fraser nods slowly. "I'm glad that she knew. I did ask that she was given as much information as possible."

"And as for you, Benny, you told me where you were yourself."

Fraser frowns at me. "I most certainly did not."

I grin at him. I can't help it. "You did so. You gave me your frigging co-ordinates, remember?"

Fraser looks sort of shocked, and then, I think, impressed. "Ah. So I did. But that was a week ago."

"Figured you'd be in the nearest town by now."

He nods again. His hands are clasped in front of him. "So Inspector Thatcher knows of my whereabouts. You also. Is there anybody else?"

"The lady knows you're up here in the northwest, but she doesn't know where. And I told Welsh as much as she knows, so he'd let me come here. Uh, Elaine knows I went to Yellowknife, but she doesn't know why. Though I guess she'd figure it's to do with you. That's it. No-one else. Is that okay?"

"That's okay, Ray. Thank you."

Fraser sits back in the chair, and we look at each other. I realize I don't know what I'm supposed to say to him now. I'd figured that once I'd tracked him down, I'd have to argue him round, make him see how crazy he was acting, convince him that coming back to Chicago wasn't abandoning his God-given duty, and then, hey presto, I'd've fixed it. But now I'm here, I can't help seeing how I'm definitely the one acting the craziest.

Still, I got a lot of legitimate questions, and this seems like one of the biggest: "So what is it you're doing? What are you undercover for?"

"It's – " Fraser almost physically catches himself, and shuts his mouth as soon as he's opened it. Well, shit, of course he can't say anything. He looks guilty, and after a second I realize he doesn't look that way because he nearly told me and he feels bad about that, but because he knows he can't, and he feels bad about _that_. That gets to something weird and important, deep inside me.

"You can't say. I know. Sorry." I rub at my forehead. "Anything you are allowed to tell me? Like, are you undercover as a real guy, or a made-up guy?"

"A real man," Fraser says. "An informant. I met him briefly. He's under witness protection, now, somewhere – I don't know where."

Yeah, this is organized crime, all right. And it figures that some branch of the Canadian mob involves tracking through the frozen wilderness. Even the criminals out here can't seem to make life easy for themselves.

"You looked pretty good out there. Convincing. You've been practicing, huh?"

Fraser smiles, and says, "He's an American."

"An American?" I need a second to take this in. "You're an American? That's who you gotta pretend to be?"

"Indeed." Fraser scratches at the back of his head. "I've learnt a lot over the past two years. It seems my time in Chicago has imbued me with valuable knowledge of American customs. That was partly why I was approached."

"Uh-huh," I say, and of course this is kind of hilarious, the idea of Fraser acting up as an Old West cowboy or a city slicker or something, but also – I feel really, really sad. That guy I saw in the bar, that version of Fraser that wasn't Fraser, I don't think that guy could've existed before Fraser came to Chicago. Well, he just said so himself.

"What's the matter?"

"Benny," I say, "did I make you a worse person, do you think?"

Fraser's eyes go wide. "No, Ray," he says, and he smiles again, just a small one. "You definitely didn't do that."

"Okay," I say, although it isn't. "What about Dief?"

"I think you certainly made him a worse person, yes."

"No, smartass. What happens to Dief now? D'you get to keep him?"

"I'm not sure Diefenbaker and I have a relationship that involves either of us keeping the other. But as far as I can tell he plans to remain with me throughout the operation, and nobody else involved has any objection to that. At the moment he's – well, he's where I'm staying."

So that's something. "Good," I say, "that's really good. So, uh, how long's it gonna be?"

"The operation?"

"Yeah. How long're you gonna be up here?"

"I don't know," he says. "I imagine a minimum of six months. But I really can't be sure."

"It could be longer than that?" He's already been away a month. What if this is a year, two years? What am I supposed to do? Does he think I'm gonna get a new partner? Shit, I was on my own for a spell before Fraser came along, I can do it again. I can wait. I nod to myself. "Sure. Okay. But then you'll come home?"

It sounds silly, as soon as I've said it, like a little kid whining. And Fraser looks guilty again, and glances away from me for the first time in the whole time we've been talking. I realize why just a second before he answers me, and I don't want to hear it, but I guess I have to.

"Chicago has never been my home, Ray," he tells me, quietly.

I nod, again, and I look at the floor. "Yeah. I know."

I hope he won't carry on, but he does. "I had already been thinking about… relocating. I've learnt a great deal in Chicago, as I said. But there's not a huge amount keeping me there."

I jerk my head up, I can't help it, and look at him. I have a horrible feeling this is the face I pulled when Angie told me we were finished.

"Not a _huge_ amount," he repeats. "Not nothing at all."

"So you did it the hardest way you could," I say. "Ripped the band aid clean off."

"I didn't plan this," Fraser says, and it comes out fervent, almost desperate, and I do believe him. Evidently there's a lot about Fraser I don't know, but I know that he's telling the truth, that he wouldn't do this on purpose. He called me, I keep remembering, despite everything, he still had to call me. "There's no way I could have known about this. I promise. I really did come here on vacation, and then – well. I was called into a meeting. And it seemed that the timing was right."

"Yeah," I say. "I guess it was. Just lucky."

Fraser breathes out slowly. "I'd like to send my regards to everybody," he says. "I wish – I'd like to say goodbye to Inspector Thatcher, to Lieutenant Welsh, to Elaine, to Frannie, to everybody who's been so kind to me."

"I can do that," I tell him. "No problem."

"I'm afraid not, Ray. Nobody can know that you saw me. Anybody who knew that you came here – you'll have to tell them you were unsuccessful."

"Oh."

"So you can't pass those regards on. But I think I'll send them anyway. It's something, I suppose, if at least you know that I wish they could hear them."

It's something pretty freaking depressing, but Jeez, if it's any comfort to Fraser at all, then sure. "Okay, Frase. That's fine. I won't pass it on."

"Thank you." Fraser sits back in his chair and sighs. "What am I missing?" he asks, and for a second I think that's a deep kind of question that I don't feel real qualified to answer, but then he carries on, "In Chicago. What have you been working on?"

"Oh. Me." I wave my hand. "The usual. Still nothing on the Kaminsky twins. I got, uh, a kid who accidentally shot another kid in the head. Grim. And this week, this guy Suarez – he liquidated everything he had and disappeared off the face of the earth. Except he left behind a wife and three kids. And Mrs Suarez is pretty pissed."

"I imagine so."

"She'd like you," I say. "You'd make her believe we were gonna find him and make him pay. I say the same thing, but…" But what? I don't know what it is, that Fraser's got and I don't.

Fraser looks at the floor again, and I don't want to make him feel bad, even though what I just said makes it pretty clear that some part of me does.

"But anyway," I say. "I left that with Huey. She likes him too. More than me, at least."

"I'm sure you'll find him," Fraser says, looking at me again. Something in his eye glints with amusement. "Going on your current performance."

"Shit, yeah. I guess you're right."

"Of course I am."

We look at each other. I start feeling the end of this conversation creeping up on us, and I don't want that, but I don't want to keep Fraser when I know he has to go. Well, obviously I do – but I don't want to make it any harder for him than it has to be.

"So," I say, "I guess you don't know when we'll see each other again."

Fraser shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Ray. But we will."

"You'll call me, as soon as this is done, okay?"

"Of course."

"Whenever, however long it takes, just let me know when you're through."

"I will."

"And – you're not coming back to Chicago, but I'll come back up here, no problem. We can hang out. Maybe I can watch them give you a medal or a golden mukluk or whatever you're gonna get for bringing down the Canadian mafia."

"I didn't say I wouldn't ever come back," Fraser says. "It will be my turn to visit you, surely."

"No way, Benny, you'll be wiped out. It'll be the least I can do, spare you a day-long flight." And I don't think I'd be ready to handle having Fraser back but not really having him back. It'd be too hard, seeing him in all the places he should be, but knowing it was temporary. In a few years, maybe, but not straight after. "Nah, I'll come visit you up here again."

"I'd like that very much," says Fraser. "Perhaps… well. I'll still have a cabin to rebuild."

"Oh yeah?" This feels like fantasy talk, can't tell if this is our equivalent of the stupid pipe dream that everybody knows is never gonna happen, or if Fraser is serious. I think probably he is. So whether or not it's real depends on whether or not I decide it is too. I nod again. "You still think you're going to want a hand with that?"

"Two, if you have them to spare."

"Fraser, you ask me for eight hands, I'll grow 'em like an octopus. Whatever you need."

"That won't be necessary, Ray."

"All right," I say, and I smile at him to keep my face from doing anything else. "But you just let me know."

Fraser nods. Then he stands up, and it's so familiar, the way he gets to his feet like he's been called to attention, even when he's on his own, even when it's just me and him. "I have to go," he says, and give him credit, he looks like it's killing him a little to say it. "I hope I haven't been missed. Needless to say, I shouldn't have come here."

"I know," I say, and I stand up too. "I appreciate it. I appreciate that."

Fraser gives a little cough, pulls at the collar of his shirt, and for a second I think it's gonna be a non-goodbye, something stilted and unreal and not how I want to remember him. But then he looks me in the eye and says, "I will miss you tremendously, Ray. Please know that," and suddenly the fake emotionless option seems like a great idea.

"Yeah," I say, "Me too," and then I hug him again, and we hold on for what in most situations I would say is way too long, but here, now, I don't think there are rules like that any more.

When I let go of him he goes to the door, and I follow him. He opens it and I think for a moment that we've decided this is it, that there's nothing more either of us can add. But then he says, "Take care, Ray, won't you?" and the concern on his face is so real that it makes me a bit hysterical.

"Me?" I say. "I'm gonna be _fine_. You, on the other hand – stay fuckin' safe, okay?"

Fraser grins at me, broad and open and like he only does once in a blue moon. "Have you ever known me to do anything else?"

"Get outta here," I say, and that grin turns into something softer, kinder, and he shuts the door behind him.

I stand still for a moment and listen to the sound of him walking down the corridor. Then I go to the window and pull up the blinds. There's no snow on the ground in the city right now, since this is what passes for springtime, however inhumanly cold it feels to me. I stand at the window for a little while, looking down, leaning on the frame, until I see a figure push through the double doors at the front of the building and walk away.

It sounds completely dumb, and maybe my mind's not firing on all cylinders right now, but as Fraser leaves, it's like the gray smudge of the parking lot below fades to nothing. I see him on an ice-field, heading towards those distant mountains, snow falling light around him. And I think: yeah. Yeah, okay.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this story, you can reblog it [on tumblr](https://justlikeeddie.tumblr.com/post/125552579582/pinpoint-equestrianstatue-due-south-archive)!


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